


What A World We Live In

by waterwalksbarefoot



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: (a screech owl to be precise), Hogwarts AU, Jason is an owl, M/M, Some bullying, homophobia (both external and internalized), some anti-Semitism too, this is my first multi-chapter fic so be patient with me :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-06-21 08:10:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15553401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterwalksbarefoot/pseuds/waterwalksbarefoot
Summary: Hogwarts, 1982. Whizzer is a queer half-blood half-Jew in a House full of aspiring Death Eaters. He doesn't know what he expected.





	1. Anything's Possible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow okay this took over my brain. A few things I want to be really clear about:
> 
> -This is not going to touch on the AIDS crisis, because they're teens here and also in a closed environment where Whizzer is the only out kid at the school. That said, it will deal with homophobia both personal and systemic.  
> -Everybody but Cordelia is Jewish, and since Hogwarts is not the most, shall we say, diverse environment, some anti-Semitism is going to come up too.  
> -I'm a queer Jew who takes both of these issues VERY seriously.
> 
> Also I had fun Sorting everybody but feel free to bitch if you think I did it wrong :D

**October, 1982**

“I need Jason this weekend,” Marvin says.

Trina ignores him. She’s got a Transfiguration essay due in three hours, Charms homework due in five that she hasn’t even looked at, and Mendel is supposed to be here any second now for help on his Potions assignment. She doesn’t have time for Marvin right now. Or ever.

“Trina, did you hear me?”

 _The threefold properties of transfiguring buttons into butterflies are…._ She chews on the end of her quill. _The threefold properties…_

“Trina!” His fingers snap in her face and she jumps.

Well, she supposes that it’s good to know he’s back to being his usual asshole self. For a while there, after the break-up with Whizzer-- after he’d screamed at her and Mendel in the middle of Hogsmeade and even raised his wand at her before Mendel disarmed him-- he had been so… quiet. Eyes down, shoulders hunched, not even being a smartass in class kind of quiet. She hadn’t wanted to worry about him, but, well. When did anything concerning Marvin ever go as she wanted?

Still, though-- there are some things she hadn’t missed.

She whirls to face him, trying to quiet that residual part of her brain that’s still worrying about whether her lipstick is fresh enough, her hair still sitting right. He’s _queer_ , she reminds herself sharply. And anyway, she has Mendel now. She doesn’t need Marvin’s approval anymore.

“ _I_ need Jason,” she snaps. “Get your own owl.”

His brows lower, never a good sign. “Jason _is_ my owl.”

“Jason is _my_ owl.”

“He’s _our_ owl, Trina. We bought him together. He’s mine too!”

“You bought him for me!”

“I bought him for us!”

“Children, please,” comes a voice from behind her. Ah, there’s Mendel. Always right on time. Or, rather, at least ten minutes late, but who's counting.

“Stay out of this,” Marvin says to him.

“Don’t tell him what to do,” says Trina.

Mendel sighs. “Why don’t _I_ just take Jason and leave you two to fight it out in peace?” He plops down into the seat beside her, tipping the chair back precariously.

“Don’t be a jackass.”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk."

“God, this is why we need Whizzer,” Mendel mumbles.

There’s a moment of shocked silence. Mendel looks down at the table, cheeks slightly flushed. Trina can’t seem to make eye contact with Marvin, who’s staring at Mendel anyway, eyes wide and incredulous. She can feel the tension building, the blow-up coming.

But she _really_ doesn’t want to get kicked out of the library today, so she raises a hand to silence them both before Marvin’s short fuse sends Madam Pince bustling over. “Fine,” she grits out. “Take Jason. But _just_ for this weekend, got it?”

He crosses his arms over his chest, but he nods. “Fine.” There’s an awkward silence, then, as Mendel continues to stare at the table, refusing to look up and meet Marvin’s furious gaze. Finally, he spins on his heel and marches out, and Trina breathes a sigh of relief.

“Whoops,” Mendel mutters to the table.

Trina puts her head in her hands. Sometimes she just gets so tired of all these stupid, charming jerks.

 

* * *

  

Whizzer avoids the Slytherin Common Room as much as he can. It isn’t that he’s frightened; he’s more than a match for any of the stupid, sneering bullies his House seems to have no shortage of. It’s just that it’s easier this way. Plus, it’s nice to be out here in the courtyard, enjoying the last bit of sunlight he’s likely to get before winter swoops in and washes all the warmth away.

He misses Cordelia, but she’d wanted to go help out the elves in the kitchen again and, well, he wasn’t about to make that mistake twice. He had left her to her floury fate and come out to work on his tan, watching idly as the giant squid made ripples on the surface of the lake.

He’s been outside for an hour or so and is just starting to think about maybe dragging Cordelia out of the kitchen to give the poor elves some peace when an owl flutters down beside him.

A very familiar owl, at that.

“Jason?” He shakes his head, bemused. “What are you doing here?”

The owl screeches. He supposes he should have expected that.

“Where’s Trina?” He holds out a hand and the little guy jumps right in. Just like he used to, he thinks, swallowing down a sudden lump. Okay, so maybe he’s missed Jason and his big stupid eyes and his big stupid shrieks. That doesn’t mean he’s missed… anyone else.

It doesn’t seem like Jason is going to jump out of his hands anytime soon, so he stretches and stands up, sliding his sunglasses down over his eyes. Hopefully Trina will be in the Great Hall; it’s probably right around time for lunch, and she usually meets up with Mendel nowadays at the Hufflepuff table. Not that he’s noticed, of course. Not that he misses the little group they once had.

Trina hates you, he reminds himself. Mendel had never seemed to care one way or the other, and Marvin….

He isn’t thinking about Marvin.

Right. Go inside, find Trina, hand off Jason, go back to slinking around corners and hoping he doesn’t run into anyone without enough heads-up to raise his wand first. God, sixth year is depressing.

Well, maybe Cordelia will be there. He can sit with her and hope she hasn’t pissed off the house elves enough that they’ve poisoned the food. Or, worse-- he shudders-- that they actually serve what she made.

The Great Hall is just starting to fill up; he was right about the time. He scans the Hufflepuff table, but he doesn’t see Trina, Mendel, or Cordelia. In his hands, Jason is starting to squirm. “Relax, buddy,” he whispers down to him. “Just looking for your mom.”

Okay, so maybe Mendel went over to Gryffindor today to sit with Trina. Stranger things have happened. He walks a little further into the Hall, but he still can’t see either of them. Pushing his sunglasses back up into his hair doesn’t help, either.

His heart is starting to pound a little, which is stupid. And insane. And pathetic. They wouldn’t be at the Slytherin table, he knows. Who would? So that leaves….

And yes, there they are, a little knot of them: Trina with her red barrette, Mendel in his yellow sweater, Cordelia bright as sunshine with her golden scarf, Charlotte resplendent as always in blue, and--

Marvin.

Marvin wearing a blue sweater that’s too loose and a sloppily tied tie and still managing to look damn good. Marvin chuckling at something Cordelia’s said, the goddamn traitor, his arms on the table like the slob he is and _fuck_ , those biceps are on full display. Marvin looking happy, and relaxed, and so unlike the charming maniac that Whizzer knows he is that he has to fight the urge to close his eyes and just walk away.

Jason squawks at him, and he looks down. Those bright yellow eyes glare up at him.

“You’re too smart for your own good,” Whizzer mutters at him. “Or mine.”

There’s nothing for it. He’ll just have to hold his head high, shove the bird at Trina, and walk away. And then never speak to Cordelia again, the _goddamn traitor_.

Which will leave him with exactly zero friends, but whatever. He’s fine on his own. He’s always been fine on his own.

Smoothing down his shirt and making sure his tie is straight (what? he just cares about his clothes, that’s all, unlike some people he definitely won’t name), he saunters over, Jason clenched tightly in his grip. Maybe a little too tightly, because the bird lets out another short screech, and then suddenly they’re all looking at him.

Right. Time to shine.

“What are you doing here?” Trina hisses, and, okay, it’s not like he expected better from her, but all the same: ouch.

“Bringing Jason back,” he says simply. “He wouldn’t let me go.”

She looks skeptical, but Mendel nods, and that seems to be enough for her. Whizzer holds out the owl to her--

and it flies straight to Marvin.

He’s pretty sure both he and Trina are thinking the same thing right now: _Traitor_.

For once, though, Marvin isn’t smirking. His smile is hesitant, awkward, but sincere. Whizzer tries and fails to ignore the fact that it makes his breath catch a little in his throat.

“Look who’s here,” Marvin says.

And really, he ought to have known this would happen. It’s not like Hogwarts is huge, after all. He couldn’t have avoided him forever.

But are the butterflies in his stomach really _necessary_?

Jason preens from his perch on Marvin’s shoulder. Whizzer glares at him.

“Hello,” Whizzer says, to the group at large.

“Hi,” Cordelia chirps back. Whizzer ignores her.

“Hi, Whizzer,” says Charlotte. “Nice to see you.” He smiles at her; Charlotte’s always been kind to him, and it’s not like he can blame _her_ for sitting with Marvin. They’re in the same House, after all, and they were friends long before he entered the picture. Not that he’s entirely sure _why_.

“You’re looking sweeter than a donut,” Marvin says, and it’s such a weird, cringe-y, _Marvin_ line that he lets out a little laugh before he can help it. Marvin smiles, as pleased with himself as ever, but is it just hopeful thinking or does it seem like there’s less of an edge to it than there used to be? “Come sit with us,” he says.

Whizzer shakes his head, but before he can go anywhere Cordelia chimes in with, “Yeah, Whizzer, join us!”

And… okay.

He can do this.

He’ll just sit next to Charlotte and talk to her. And _only_ her.

Or he would, but that’s when Marvin starts shoving Trina and Mendel out of the way so that Whizzer will come sit next to him.

By the time everyone has been resettled, there’s nothing for it but to slide in next to Marvin on the long bench, doing his best not to knock into him or the bemused fifth year on his other side. Unfortunately, Whizzer is tall, has always been tall for his age, and it’s nearly impossible to get his legs around without some accidental contact. Even more unfortunately, as hard as he is trying, Marvin seems to be trying just as hard in the opposite direction.

He ends up with his thigh resting against his ex-boyfriend’s and a now very annoyed fifth year Ravenclaw practically kicking him into Marvin’s side. It’s… not ideal.

“So, how have you been, Whizzer?” Mendel asks.

 _Oh, you know, just friendless and lonely while you five have been chumming it up without me like I was never even here_. “Fine.”

“Good, good.” An awkward pause.

“And… how about you?” Whizzer forces himself to say.

“Oh, great,” Mendel says. “Yeah, really… really great.” He smiles at Trina, who smiles back, taking hold of his hand.

“Good,” Whizzer says.

Charlotte’s looking at him like he’s one of the patients she wants to learn how to Heal. He makes a face at her.

Good god, is this what he’s been missing? This awkward silence, the six of them staring down at their plates, unable to think of a word to say to each other? Or maybe it’s just him, breaking into their little family again. They were talking fine before you showed up, a nasty little voice in his head reminds him.

“Right, well, I should--”

“Don’t,” Marvin interrupts. “Don’t go.” Marvin’s eyes are wide and blue and focused right on him, and Whizzer’s heart jumps. Like a trained dog. Like a goddamn fool. “You haven’t even eaten anything yet,” he points out.

 _Ask me to stay. Keep asking me to stay._ “I’m not that hungry,” he says.

“Whiz, you haven’t eaten all day,” Cordelia pipes up from Marvin’s other side. He glares down at her from over Marvin’s head. She grins happily back.

“At least try the turkey,” Marvin says. “Come on, they did it how you like it.”

“Fine,” he grits out. He really isn’t all that hungry, but at worst, he can feed it to Jason while they’re not looking. Not that the stupid bird deserves it.

Now that he’s occupied with grabbing himself some food, the conversation starts to flow again around him. Trina is complaining about how Snape is so much harder to please than Slughorn ever was; Charlotte, who’s always liked a challenge, points out that Snape is also a better teacher. Mendel chimes in that Slughorn never liked him, so it doesn’t make much difference as far as he’s concerned. Cordelia, who would regularly melt cauldrons, didn’t get her O.W.L. in Potions and is still bitter about it.

Throughout it all, Marvin is weirdly silent. He listens to Trina bitch, smiles at Charlotte, rolls his eyes at Mendel. But he never says a goddamn word, and Whizzer finds himself wrong-footed, expecting a sarcastic comment or a biting quip that never comes.

“What about you, Whizzer?” Charlotte says, cutting off Cordelia’s rant about how the cauldron didn’t _really_ melt, it just sort of _dripped a little_. “How are your N.E.W.T.-level classes going?”

One of the last fights that Marvin and Whizzer had, just days before the wizarding chess game that ruined it all, was about how Whizzer didn’t take his schoolwork seriously enough. It was right before his O.W.L. exams, and Marvin had said that Whizzer wouldn’t pass any of them at this rate. It was lucky he was pretty, Marvin said, since he had so little else going for him.

“Great,” he says, looking Marvin right in the eye. “All five of them.”

Marvin has the grace to wince, but he doesn’t look away.

It’s Jason who breaks their gazes; apparently bored of waiting for someone to offer their leftovers to him, he dives for Trina’s plate, and soon the whole table is in chaos as Trina scolds him while the Ravenclaws cheer him on. Whizzer laughs before he can help himself, and he doesn’t miss Trina’s glare, but he doesn’t miss the way Marvin brightens at the sound, either.

In the pandemonium, Marvin kicks his shoe under the table. Marvin leans in close to him. Marvin whispers, so low only he can hear, “Would it be possible to see you, sometime? To kiss you, or just-- just hang out, if you wanted to?”

And god help him, but Marvin’s so cute when he’s nervous, and his heart leaps into his throat before he can do anything about it, and he’s smiling without even meaning to.

What the hell. They’re at a school for magic, after all.

Anything is possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I moved it up to 1982 so that I wouldn't have to deal with Voldemort being an active presence in the story. But he was around for all of their previous years, which informed some of the conflict in Year 6 (Marvin) / Year 5 (Whizzer). In this story, they broke up towards the end of that year. 
> 
> In the 1982-83 school year, Marvin, Trina, Mendel, and Charlotte are Year 7, while Whizzer and Cordelia are Year 6. Charlotte and Cordelia are not yet together.


	2. All I Want Is You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm off to Israel for two weeks, so here's a quick update before I go :D

The Quidditch pitch is quiet and deserted this early on a Saturday morning, before any of the teams have roused themselves enough to start practice. In the thin light crackling over the field, Marvin looks like a soft focus portrait of himself, like one of the Julia Margaret Camerons his mother loves so much. Like a revelation just coming into view.

God, he’s sappy in the mornings. 

Mid-October and it’s just cold enough to prickle his skin and paint his breath on the air. He’s already in flight by the time Marvin drags himself onto his broom, grumbling as he does about the hour and the cold and stupid athletic boyfriends and their stupid athletic hobbies. Whizzer pretends not to hear, glad for the cold to explain away the way his face glows pink. That’s the first time he can remember that Marvin’s called him “boyfriend.”

Quaffle tucked in his arm, Whizzer speeds towards the goalposts, thrilling to the wind even as it plays havoc with his hair. Marvin shouts something behind him about how they haven’t started yet, kicking ungracefully into the air. Whizzer turns back to grin at him just as he lobs the Quaffle through the farthest goalpost.

“Cheater,” Marvin huffs, pulling up alongside him.

“You snooze, you lose, Marv.” He grins. “Are you going to get the Quaffle or what?”

Marvin rolls his eyes, but he dives for it, catching it just before it hits the ground. Whizzer lets out a cheer, circling as he waits for Marvin to ascend and toss him the ball. He’s already up 1-0 and they haven’t even started yet: exactly the way he likes it.

And Marvin looking at him like he’s beautiful, like he can’t believe his eyes, like he’s never seen anything he’s wanted more: that’s just a really nice bonus.

With Marvin finally in place, they start the game in earnest. In barely twenty minutes Whizzer has scored eleven goals and Marvin’s blocked two-- which is a new record for him, much to Whizzer’s chagrin. “I’m finessing,” Marvin crows, as he dives for (and misses) the Quaffle once again.

“Don’t get too excited, pretty boy,” Whizzer shouts back. 

Marvin snatches up the Quaffle from the ground but doesn’t throw it up to him. He stays there for a moment, clutching the ball to his chest with one arm as he wipes his face with the sleeve of the other.

Whizzer raises an eyebrow, drifting down into earshot. “Giving up already?”

“I’m sweating,” Marvin whines.

“It’s called exercise,” Whizzer says dryly.

“Yes, well, it’s alright for you. You’re only half Jewish. You actually got some sports genes in there.”

Whizzer laughs. “Poor baby. You know, Charlotte is Jewish too, and she can play just fine.”

“So play with Charlotte then.”

“Awww, don’t be a sore loser, Marv. Just because I beat you every time--”

“Hey, I blocked you twice this time!”

“And I still won,” Whizzer points out. “Some Keeper you are.” He lands next to Marvin, grabbing the Quaffle out of his hands with a satisfied smile.

Marvin smiles back, but softly, almost tenderly. “I don’t care,” he says. “As long as I get to Keep you.”

Whizzer groans, but he knows he can’t blame the blush suffusing his face on the cold this time. “That was terrible,” he protests anyway. “No Quidditch puns, you’ll ruin the game for me.”

Marvin’s still looking at him like that. Whizzer looks away before he starts making equally embarrassing declarations of his own. 

“I mean it, you know,” Marvin says. “All I want is you.”

And, well, goddammit. What use is dignity, anyway?

“I love you, too,” Whizzer says. Then he throws the ball at Marvin’s head, because there’s only so much  _ feeling _ he can take this early in the morning. Marvin yelps and swats it away, and Whizzer laughs, kicking back into the air as Marvin tries-- and fails-- to retaliate. 

He loves that stupid boy so much.

* * *

 

Charlotte has spent her Saturday afternoons in the hospital wing for as long as she can remember. It started with an accident, as a first year playing Gobstones; who knew you were supposed to close your eyes when you lost, lest the stinking spray get in them? Sitting on that hospital bed as Madam Pomfrey dabbed an even fouler-smelling poultice on her face while muttering about dangerous toys and reckless children, Charlotte felt the usual curiosity stirring. “What’s in this?” she asked, patting at her face.

“Don’t touch it,” Madam Pomfrey said sharply. “It won’t work if you interfere with it.”

“Why?”

She had to have her eyes closed, so she couldn’t see the nurse’s face as she answered, but she was sure she could picture it nonetheless: the same face she herself made when something new intrigued her. “Tell you what,” Madam Pomfrey said slowly, “you let those eyes heal, and I’ll show you how I make it.”

So every Saturday, Charlotte comes to visit her unofficial teacher and get the best lessons Hogwarts has yet been able to offer her. Today, there’s no one in the beds; as Pomfrey remarks, they’ll fill up soon enough once Quidditch season starts, but right now it’s quiet and serene as Charlotte works on bulking up their store of Pepper-Up Potion. It’s cold season, after all, and they run out fast. 

She’s just adding in the powdered bicorn horn when Cordelia bounces in and plops down beside her. From the smell, overpowering even in the midst of the spicy fumes of the potion, she must have been experimenting in the kitchens again.

“Hi!” Cordelia says. “What are you making?”

“Nothing exciting,” Charlotte says truthfully. And then, because Cordelia is her best friend and Charlotte knows she’s dying to share, she asks, “How about you?”

Cordelia practically wriggles with excitement. Charlotte loves to see her like this: so happy she can’t sit still, so excited she’s practically glowing. It almost makes up for always being the one who has to try her experiments, since all of their other friends are wise enough to refuse. Try as she might, all of Charlotte’s wisdom seems to fly right out of Ravenclaw tower the moment Cordelia is around. 

“I made kreplach!” Cordelia says. “For Sukkot!”

And that’s the other thing about Cordelia: she’s genuinely kind in a way that Charlotte has really never seen in anyone else. Including herself. Sure, she wants to Heal people, but if she’s honest, it’s as much about learning about how magic and the human body interact as it is about helping. But Cordelia never has ulterior motives. She knows that Charlotte misses her family on the holidays, and she tries to help just because she cares. It kind of makes Charlotte’s heart hurt a little.

Besides, how bad can it be? Kreplach is just mashed potatoes stuffed in fried dough. It can’t be  _ that _ hard to make, surely?

Cordelia passes her a napkin and what looks like a sad, squished mound of raw dough. Okay, so maybe she was being overly optimistic.

But Cordelia is watching her anxiously, so Charlotte takes a deep breath and shoves the lump in her mouth.

It’s… well, it’s disgusting. It’s slimy, and sticky, and there are still chunks of potatoes that don’t seem to have ever been introduced to the concept of salt. Charlotte can’t cook, herself, so she knows she doesn’t really have the right to judge, but she can’t for the life of her understand why Cordelia is so passionate about something she’s so unequivocally  _ bad _ at.

But Cordelia’s face is already falling, and Charlotte would rather eat disgusting raw dumplings for the rest of her life than be the one to make the other girl look like that. So she swallows the kreplach and her grimace both and says, as cheerfully as she can manage, “It’s… really good!”

Cordelia’s whole face lights up. “Really?”

“I… yeah! It, uh… I mean, maybe it could use a little more salt,”-- Cordelia winces, but nods, and Charlotte breathes an internal sigh of relief-- “but I like it.” God, that taste is lingering in her mouth and it’s making her want to retch. But: “Thank you, Cordelia,” she says. “This was really nice of you. I love that you did this for me.”

Cordelia flushes bright pink. “Oh! I, well, sure! Anytime! I, anyway, I--” She stands up, hugging the container of kreplach to her chest. “I’m going to go see if Trina and Mendel want to try! See you later!” She turns and hurries out of the hospital wing.

Confused, Charlotte watches her go, trying to ignore her disappointment. Usually Cordelia stays longer when she visits, keeping Charlotte company and sometimes dragging her away to dinner when she gets too involved in her Healing work. But she supposes that Cordelia must have been too excited to get their other friends’ opinions on her cooking to hang out this time. Well, that’s okay. Charlotte has a lot to do anyway. It’s better if she doesn’t get distracted.

She picks up the powdered bicorn horn. Time to get back to work.

* * *

 

“I panicked!” Cordelia exclaims to Whizzer.

Now that he and Marvin are back together, Whizzer has deigned to start talking to her again. Not that it was fair of him to get mad at her in the first place. Just because he was too proud to admit he still loved his ex didn’t mean that s _ he  _ had to avoid all of their friends forever. Especially not Charlotte.

Charlotte, who probably thinks Cordelia’s a crazy person, now. She groans and buries her head in her hands.

“You panicked,” Whizzer says. Sardonically, like he says everything. Honestly, how does Marvin put up with him?

“Yes! She said that it was nice of me and that she loved--”

“Whoa,” Whizzer says, and she unburies her head to glance at him, because for once he sounds sincerely shocked. “She said that she loves you?”

“No!” Cordelia groans. “She said that she loves that I made kreplach for her. But I heard the word love and then I couldn’t concentrate anymore and then I panicked!”

“So you ran out of the room,” Whizzer says. The sarcasm is back. Great.

“I didn’t run,” Cordelia says. Whizzer raises an eyebrow at her. “Okay, so I ran. But I didn’t know what else to do! What was I supposed to do!”

“You could have confessed your secret lesbian love to her,” Whizzer says.

Cordelia swats him. “Not helping!”

He sighs, leaning back on his hands. Across from him, the lake shimmers in the late afternoon sunshine. She can see the reflection of it winking in and out of his sunglasses.

“Look, Cordelia,” he starts, and to her surprise, he sounds really serious. “I know that I’m not exactly great at advice or anything.” She snorts, and he flicks her shoulder. “Shut up, I’m trying to say something here.”

“Sorry, sorry,” she says. “Go ahead.”

He sighs, still looking out at the lake. “I’m not going to lie to you,” he says quietly. “It’s not… easy, to be queer here. People aren’t exactly… accepting.” 

She frowns. “Have those guys been bothering you again? Because you need to tell someone, Whizzer. If they’re causing trouble, you can go to your Head of House and report it.”

He chuckles a little, humorlessly. “My Head of House is Snape,” he reminds her. “Besides, that’s not the point. What I’m saying is, I get that it’s tough, but Charlotte’s only got a year left here and then she’s off to St. Mungo’s to be some genius Healer.” He pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and turns to look her right in her eyes. “Don’t let her go without giving her something to miss.”

Cordelia takes his hand and squeezes it. “You know, I really love you,” she says quietly.

He laughs, squeezing her hand back. “I know,” he says. “Now tell  _ her _ .”

And even though it sets the panic back to roaring in her chest, she takes a deep breath, and she thinks of Charlotte smiling at her, Charlotte thanking her, Charlotte saying the word  _ love _ . “You know,” she says, “maybe I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charlotte and Cordelia, sittin' in a tree  
> The tree is the Whomping Willow  
> This is going to end badly


	3. Everyone Hates His Parents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back in the US! Here's a slightly longer chapter that took me forever to write. 
> 
> I imagine Mendel's mom's voice with a thick Brooklyn accent, even though they're supposed to be British here. Ah well, maybe she's an expat, who knows?

Mendel knows when he sees the red envelope clutched in Moishe’s long talons that it’s going to be a bad day.

First of all, Moishe is too old to be sent on trips to Hogwarts, and his parents know it. Which means they’re trying to guilt him. And, of course, it’s going to work. It always works.

“Oh no,” Cordelia says as Moishe all but collapses beside him. “What did you do this time?”

“It’s probably what I didn’t do,” Mendel admits. “I didn’t write my mother all week. She gets freaked out when it’s been more than two days.”

Cordelia giggles. “I can’t believe you talk to your mom that much. I’d go crazy if I had to write mine more than once every few months.”

“I _am_ crazy,” Mendel points out. He tentatively reaches out for the envelope, wincing as his fingers brush it.

“Better hurry up and open it,” Whizzer says from across the table. He stops pushing around the eggs on his plate to gesture at the Howler with his fork. “It’s starting to smoke.”

Mendel sighs and sends up a fervent prayer to the Heavens that Trina sleeps in just a little later this morning. Bad enough to get embarrassed by his mother in front of half the school at breakfast; much worse if his fairly new girlfriend has to hear it as well.

Which is probably exactly why Trina walks in just as he tears open the envelope. Because God is a shmuck.

“MENDEL SCHMUEL WEISENBACHFELD,” his mother’s voice roars from the Howler. The Great Hall hushes in an instant, all faces turning towards him. He slides down as far as he can go in his chair, covering his burning face with his hands.

“SO YOU DON’T WANT TO WRITE YOUR MOTHER, FINE. IT’S TWO WEEKS SINCE YOU SO MUCH AS LIFT A QUILL, FINE, FINE, I’M NOT UPSET. WOULD I LIKE TO KNOW THAT MY ONLY SON IS SAFE IN THAT GOYISCHE SCHOOL, OF COURSE, BUT YOU DON’T WANT TO TALK, I DON’T PUSH.”

Mendel risks a glance up through his fingers and immediately regrets it. Whizzer is practically convulsing with silent laughter, Cordelia is attempting to look sympathetic but mostly just giggling, and he doesn’t even want to know where Trina’s gone. Hopefully to get her wand, so she can kill him with it.

“BUT WHEN I HEAR THAT YOU DON’T WRITE YOUR SICK GRANDFATHER, NOT EVEN AFTER HIS PROCEDURE—”

“He gets that procedure once a month!” Mendel protests weakly to no one. If anything, Whizzer only laughs harder. And oh, great, here comes Marvin into the Hall, bleary-eyed but looking around curiously for the source of the commotion. The only person worse than Trina to witness his humiliation, and Whizzer immediately motions him over, because Whizzer is a bad friend.

He re-buries his head in his hands before he has to see the look of pure delight dawning on Marvin’s smug face.

“UNGRATEFUL,” his mother’s voice is roaring, “INDEFENSIBLE, UNCONSCIONABLE—”

Someone touches his shoulder and he jumps. “Hi, honey,” comes Trina’s quiet voice.

He sighs. “Hi, honey.”

“INEXCUSABLE, REPREHENSIBLE—”

“I tried Silencio on it,” Trina says. “Also Incendio, and a couple of curses. No luck so far.”

“Thank you for trying,” he says miserably. “But nothing can help me now. I’ll just go bury myself in the Great Lake and let the Squid do what it wants to me.”

He hears a snort that is almost definitely Marvin. He would flip him off, but he’s too miserable to gather the energy.

“It has to be over soon,” Trina says encouragingly. “She can’t have _that_ much more to say, can she?”

“You don’t know my mother,” Mendel says, and after a moment’s reflection, “Thank God.”

He’s not looking at her, but he can hear the smile in her voice as she says, “I would say I’d like to meet her someday, but, well.”

“We’ll have the Seder at your parents’,” he agrees.

Trina laughs. “You haven’t met my father yet.”

“Yeah,” Marvin chimes in, “have fun with that, buddy.”

He looks up in time to catch Trina’s glare at her ex-boyfriend, who seems to think he’s being subtle in having his hand on Whizzer’s thigh under the table. Then again, maybe Mendel only notices because he’s slumped so low in his chair.

“Just because he didn’t like _you_ ,” Trina says.

“NO RESPECT,” his mother blares. “AFTER EVERYTHING WE’VE DONE FOR YOU—”

“Listen,” Whizzer says unexpectedly, “if she’s really going to keep this up, why don’t you take it outside, where there aren’t as many people to hear it?” And then, seeming to realize that this could be misconstrued as kindness, he adds, “She’s giving me a headache.” He rubs at his head for emphasis.

“Not a bad idea,” Trina allows reluctantly. Mendel is already standing, grabbing the Howler by one screaming corner. Has anyone ever tried throwing a Howler in the Great Lake, he wonders? Because he’s going to. And if that doesn’t work, he can just drown himself in it instead.

As he dashes out of the Great Hall, he realizes Trina is still there with him, running right beside him. Even as his mother continues to scream from the envelope in his hands, he smiles to himself. Maybe he won’t need to drown today, after all.

 

* * *

 

“Got a headache, huh?” Marvin says once Mendel and Trina have left. He runs his hand teasingly up Whizzer’s thigh under the table.

“Other people’s parents always give me a headache,” Whizzer says. “And stop that.”

Marvin smirks. “Stop what?”

“Someone’s going to notice,” Whizzer hisses. “Cut it out.”

Reluctantly, Marvin removes his hand. Whizzer’s right, of course; someone could easily notice, and that wouldn’t go well for either of them. But it still hurts a little.

“What about your parents?” he says, mostly to distract himself.

Whizzer huffs a little laugh. “They give me migraines,” he says. “But I’m told that’s normal in child development.”

Marvin shrugs. “Mine aren’t so bad.”

Whizzer raises an eyebrow at him. “Really?”

“They’re kind of distant, I guess,” he clarifies. “But they’d never send a Howler like that.”

“Well, thank god for small favors.”

Marvin looks at him, taking in the way he slumps in his chair, the uneaten food on his plate, how he’s still rubbing at his head. “You’re in a bad mood today.”

Whizzer sighs. “Sorry. I’ll go.”

Marvin’s so shocked at hearing Whizzer apologize that it takes him a second to process he means to leave. “No, wait—”

“It’s fine, I have Charms work to catch up on anyway,” Whizzer says, scooping his books into his arms. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Whiz—” Marvin tries, but he’s already walking away.

He turns back to the table to see Charlotte and Cordelia looking at him with matching sympathetic expressions. “What did I say?” he asks them plaintively.

“Whizzer’s always been touchy about his parents,” Cordelia explains. “I think they weren’t too pleased when he came out as queer.”

“Which is nonsense,” Charlotte puts in hurriedly, probably in response to the scowl on Marvin’s face.

“Great,” Marvin says. “So I made him talk about something upsetting and now he’s going to be pissed at me.”

“He likes roses,” Cordelia offers.

He makes a face at her. “Believe me, I know.”

“I don’t think he’s pissed at you, Marvin,” Charlotte says. She has a strange, thoughtful expression on her face that he’s rarely seen there before. Not that Charlotte isn’t often thoughtful; she practically always is. But there’s something else to it, too, a kind of brightness, like something’s come clear to her as she speaks. “I think he just doesn’t know how to talk about it with you.”

“Right,” he says. “That’s not much better.”

“Oh, come on, Marvin,” she says, suddenly exasperated. “You have to put in some effort. All he wants is to know that you care.”

“Of course I care,” he says, stung.

“Then go find him and tell him,” she snaps. “Stop making excuses.”

Marvin stares at her. “You know, you can be a real bitch when you want to be,” he says.

Surprisingly, she laughs. “I am what I am,” she says. “Go talk to your boyfriend.”

As he gets up and heads out of the Great Hall, he thinks he overhears her saying quietly to herself, “Now to take my own advice.”

 

* * *

 

He finally finds Whizzer in an empty classroom on the second floor, hunched over a textbook with his chin on his fist. He looks so serious that Marvin almost backs out, afraid to risk a fight when things have been so good between them lately. But, well, in for a Knut, in for a Galleon, right? Charlotte’s right: he has to stop making excuses.

“Hey,” he says quietly, settling in to the desk next to him.

Whizzer doesn’t look up at him. “Hey.”

“So, ah.” Marvin rubs at the back of his neck, trying and failing to keep his nerves from getting to him. “About earlier….”

“Don’t, Marvin,” Whizzer says, still looking down at his book. “Just let it go.”

And last year, he would have. In fact, last year he probably wouldn’t have brought it up again at all. He would have shrugged it off, told himself it wasn’t his problem, would have let Whizzer go off and sulk and probably resented him for it while he was at it.

But Marvin’s changed since last year, and he’d like to think it’s for the better.

“You don’t have to tell me about it,” he says, to the back of his boyfriend’s bent head. “But if you want to, I’ll listen.”

Finally, Whizzer looks up at him, the expression on his face more vulnerable than Marvin’s ever seen it. He reflects briefly that he’s not the only one who has changed; the Whizzer of a year ago would never have let his guard down so far.

“There’s not much to tell,” he says. He smiles a little, ruefully. “I just didn’t sleep well last night, I think.”

And then again, maybe that guard hasn’t come down so far after all.

“Cordelia said you had some trouble with your parents,” Marvin prompts gently.

To his surprise, Whizzer waves a dismissive hand at that. “That’s not what this is about.”

“It’s not?” Marvin says, thrown.

“I’m not upset that I have shitty parents,” Whizzer says. Marvin watches him closely, but as far as he can tell, Whizzer is being entirely sincere. “Everyone has shitty parents. Like you said: at least mine wouldn’t send a Howler like that. Wouldn’t want to ruin their image, would they?” He snorts.

Marvin waits, unsure what to say. But Whizzer moves to turn back to his book and, afraid to lose him, he blurts out, “So what are you upset about?”

Whizzer stills, keeping his gaze again on his book. There’s a long moment where it seems equally likely that he might speak, or ignore the question entirely, or possibly pick up the book in front of him and throw it at Marvin’s head. Wouldn’t be the first time, either.

“They were talking about the Seder,” he admits finally, his voice low and uncertain. “Whose house they’d go to for it.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Marvin says, when nothing else seems forthcoming. “And dealing with Trina’s dad.” He grins. “Better Mendel than me.”

“And that’s just it,” Whizzer bites out. “Exactly that.”

Marvin stares at him, at a loss. “Exactly what?”

Whizzer makes a frustrated gesture, his hair flopping on his forehead in a way Marvin would find comical if he weren’t so clearly upset. “That!”

“That _what_?” Marvin says, starting to get frustrated himself. “Trina? Trina’s dad? Mendel? I mean, believe me, Mendel upsets me too—”

“Don’t make this a joke, Marvin!” Whizzer’s wringing his hands, something he only does when he is genuinely anxious or hurt. The last time Marvin saw him do that, it had been over an ill-fated game of chess. Seeing it now makes him feel sick to his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “But I really don’t get it, so you’re going to have to explain it to me.”

That unguarded look is back. Whizzer swallows, one hand pressed tight against the other. “My family does Christmas,” he starts. “The tree, the presents, the whole family getting together, all of it.”

“I know,” says Marvin. One of their fights, last year, had been about Christmas: Marvin’s anger at the exorbitant display Hogwarts put on for a holiday not all of its students celebrated; Whizzer’s unabashed joy in said display and impatience for Marvin’s discomfort. It was one of the few times he and Trina had been in agreement on something since their breakup, which of course had only made the fight between him and Whizzer worse.

Whizzer half-smiles at him, probably remembering the same thing. “ _Everyone_ came to Christmas,” he says. “All the aunts and uncles, all the cousins. And anyone who had a partner, a wife, a husband, a fiancee, even a boyfriend or girlfriend: they would all bring them.”

“Okay,” Marvin says. He thinks he’s starting to get an idea of where this is going.

Whizzer sighs. “They asked me every year when I was going to bring someone. Didn’t I have a girlfriend yet? When was I going to bring her home for Christmas?” He gives a short, humorless chuckle. “They asked me last year, you know.”

Marvin winces. “They did?” He remembers how Whizzer had been then, after coming back from that break: more spiteful than ever, quicker to anger and to pick a fight, even more charmingly cruel than usual. “What did you say?”

“I said there was no one.”

Ouch.

Whizzer sees the look on his face and reaches out for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “Marvin, this is what I’m trying to tell you. There aren’t any family Seders for us. There’s no Christmas with my aunts and uncles and cousins. Honestly, do your parents even know I exist? Because mine don’t know about you, and the best we can hope for is that they’re never going to.”

Marvin looks down at their hands, at Whizzer’s grasping his, his own clutching feebly back. “No, my parents don’t know about you,” he admits.

“Didn’t think so.” Whizzer releases his hand, turning back to his book. There’s a long moment where Marvin tries to think of something wise to say, something comforting or at least distracting, and then Whizzer adds, “Sometimes I think you don’t realize what you gave up when you chose me.”

And, well, there’s only one response to that: “I don’t care,” Marvin says fiercely. “Whizzer, look at me. I don’t care about our parents, or family Seders, and I sure as hell don’t care about Christmas.”

Whizzer gives a soft little laugh at that and, heartened, Marvin carries on.

“Whatever you think I gave up,” he says, “I don’t miss it. We don’t need to go anywhere for the holidays. Hell, it’s not like Hogwarts gives us time off for them anyway. We can have our own Seder in Ravenclaw tower; I’m sure I can order in some matzah from somewhere.”

“And the lamb bone?” Whizzer says, but he’s smiling.

Marvin shrugs. “We’ll use a beet instead. I’m sure the kitchen can spare one. Listen, kid, we can make this work. I promise.”

Whizzer’s eyes are the softest he’s ever seen them. But of course what he says is, “Kid? I’m only a year younger than you.”

Marvin rolls his eyes. “Alright, we’re both kids,” he says. “Kids of shitty parents. But there’s no reason we can’t make a tight-knit little family of our own.”

And maybe he hates the way Whizzer’s eyes dart to the door before he leans in for a kiss, and maybe he’ll miss his mother’s charoset, but Marvin knows this: given the chance, he would make the same choice, over and over again.

 

* * *

 

“Now to take my own advice,” Charlotte mutters to herself as Marvin leaves the table, ignoring Cordelia’s questioning look.

Because, honestly, isn’t it time? She and Cordelia have been best friends for years now, ever since an accident in the kitchen in Cordelia’s third year left Charlotte cleaning up her burns in the hospital wing. While Madam Pomfrey lectured her about how students were not allowed in the kitchens for precisely this reason, Charlotte felt curiosity stir at how this bright, pretty girl could flaunt the rules so cheerfully, injure herself without complaint, and be so clearly planning to return and try again as soon as she was allowed to leave.

And, okay, she admits to herself now, as she hadn’t had the courage to do back then. Maybe there was something more than just curiosity there, too.

Three years and plenty of burns and bruises later, Charlotte takes a deep breath and looks Cordelia straight in the eyes. “I need to talk to you about something.”

To her surprise, Cordelia blushes. “Oh,” she says. “I need to talk to you about something, too.”

Thrown, Charlotte stammers, “I—oh. You go first.”

“Oh, no, no, you go first.”

“No, I mean, it seems important, so—”

“It is, kind of, but yours seems important too, so—”

“It’s very important,” Charlotte breathes. “It’s the most important.” Screw politeness; whatever Cordelia has to say can wait, especially because she’s pretty sure she’ll lose all her sudden courage if she doesn’t manage to get this out right _now_. “Cordelia,” she says, squaring her shoulders, “I know this might be weird, and I’ve been afraid to say anything because I didn’t want to risk our friendship, but I’m going to explode if I don’t just go ahead and say it. So I—I just want to tell you that I—” Damn it, this is a lot harder than she thought it was going to be, and it’s not like she thought it was going to be a broom ride in the park. “I want to tell you that I really, really like you,” she finishes in a rush.

Cordelia smiles at her, as bright and sweet as ever. “Me too,” she says.

“No,” Charlotte says, frustrated, “I mean—”

Cordelia’s smile widens. “ _Me too_.”

Charlotte stops, dumbstruck.

“Do you want to know what I was going to say?” Cordelia says, almost teasingly. “Because I had a whole speech planned out.”

Still at a loss for words, Charlotte nods.

“I was going to say,” Cordelia says, “that we’ve been friends for a long time. A whole lot of years, and it’s made me really happy. _You_ make me really happy. So that’s why I need to tell you that I’ve been kind of keeping a secret from you. Because you’re my best friend, and it’s been really great. But I think it could be even greater if you would let me kiss you.”

Charlotte swallows. “Whizzer helped you with that.”

“Yeah,” Cordelia says. “He did. But the idea was mine.”

“It’s a good speech.”

Cordelia giggles. “I liked yours, too.”

“Well,” says Charlotte, and stands up, reaching down to pull Cordelia up with her. “Let’s see how great we can make it then, shall we?”

“But not here,” Cordelia says quickly.

“No, not here,” Charlotte agrees. “But I’m sure we can find an empty classroom somewhere.”

Cordelia grins at her, gold and glowing. “Lead on, milady.”

“With pleasure,” says Charlotte, and does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorm Seders are the best Seders (you can’t tell me that Elijah didn’t appreciate the pink plastic Tinker Bell cup I put out for him every year)
> 
> P.S. Using a beet is totally legit and a great veg-friendly alternative to the lamb bone!


	4. Something Bad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some bullying, specifically for some homophobic language.

He’s just a little tired. That’s what Whizzer tells himself as he stumbles out of bed that morning, an hour past when he was supposed to meet Marvin on the Quidditch pitch. Cursing to himself as he tugs on a sweater and frantically runs a brush through his hair, he tries not to notice the way his hands shake and his breath keeps seeming to catch somewhere in his chest. It’s not a cough, exactly, more like an irritating tickle that just won’t go away. He throws his tie around his neck, not bothering to actually tie it, and rushes out of the dorm before anyone can make a comment.

He’s just a little tired. In the hallway he stops and leans against the wall, trying to catch his breath. God, he’s glad that no one else seems to be around at the moment. He’d make an easy target like this.

He must have just slept poorly last night. True, he went to bed pretty early, and he seemed to fall asleep almost right away. But maybe he just got _too_ much sleep, and now his body’s feeling weird because he hasn’t woken up all the way yet.

He pushes off the wall, ignoring the way he stumbles a little up the stone stairs out of the dungeon. God, Marvin’s probably furious with him. He’s always hated lateness, especially when it inconveniences him.

That’s not fair, he scolds himself. Marvin’s been a lot better lately, ever since they came back from summer break. He’s been kinder, more patient, more affectionate. Whizzer doesn’t even think he’ll be angry, not really. He’s just tired, and it’s making him irritable and anxious.

He’s sweating by the time he gets out to the pitch. The late October breeze feels nice on his face. He’s surprised to see what looks to be Charlotte and Cordelia up in the stands, talking quietly together as Marvin flies inexpertly around the goalposts. He stops for a minute, just watching him, enjoying the sight of him crouched on a broomstick with his hair bouncing around his face. It’s getting long enough now to develop a little curl at the ends. Whizzer likes it.

Marvin turns and sees him there, judging from the way he immediately angles his broom towards the corner of the field. Whizzer gives a lazy wave, tucking his hands in his pockets as Marvin pulls off a semi-graceful landing next to him.

“Well, good morning, sleeping beauty,” Marvin says, grinning at him. “I was starting to think you weren’t going to make it out here at all.”

Whizzer shrugs. “Gotta keep you on your toes,” he says, but he’s grinning, too. Marvin does that to him.

“Is that—Whizzer, are you wearing a _sweater_?” Marvin says in mock astonishment. “Whatever happened to sweaters being the height of nerd fashion? Are you _feeling okay_?”

“Oh, shut up,” Whizzer snaps, but without any heat. It’s true, sweaters are hideous. He hadn’t even realized he was wearing one. “I just grabbed the first thing I could find.”

Marvin smiles at him. “It’s kind of cute that you were in such a rush to see me you didn’t even fuss about your clothes. That’s a first.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes. “Do you want to play or not?”

“I’m waiting for you,” Marvin says. “Go get your broom.” He grins again. “Nerd.”

“You are _also_ wearing a sweater, Marv,” Whizzer points out. God, it’s a long walk from here to where the brooms are kept. How has he never noticed how far away it is before?

“I wear sweaters every day.” Marvin’s keeping pace with him on his broom, no small feat given how slowly Whizzer is walking.

“My point exactly.”

Marvin huffs. “I’m not going to just sit here and be insulted. We’ll see who’s cool up there.” He jabs a finger at the sky.

“Marvin, I always beat you,” Whizzer says, amused.

“We’ll see,” Marvin says again, and kicks off, leaving Whizzer to grab his broom and the Quaffle from the training shed.

By the time he gets there, his hands are shaking again and his breath is starting to rasp in his throat. God, what is wrong with him today?

He steps back out onto the field and mounts his broom, trying to enjoy the wind in his hair like he always does as he ascends towards the goalposts. Charlotte and Cordelia wave at him and he tucks the Quaffle under his arm to wave back. They look cozy down there, he notes. He’ll have to interrogate Cordelia about it later.

He shifts the Quaffle back into his hands, trying to keep a steady grip on it. Marvin is watching intently from his position in front of the center goalposts. Whizzer shoots forward, pulls suddenly to the left, and throws the Quaffle—

and Marvin blocks it.

In the stands, Charlotte and Cordelia cheer, and Whizzer blows out a frustrated breath. Marvin tosses him the ball back, grinning proudly. He must have been practicing while Whizzer was still asleep.

Well, it doesn’t matter. So Marvin blocked one goal. He usually gets a couple in nowadays, since they’ve been playing regularly. Whizzer still always wins.

He loops around, flying to the other side of the field so he can nerve Marvin out on his approach. It always works: Marvin always overthinks it, and whatever goal Whizzer aims for, Marvin dives for a different one.

He builds up speed, fakes to the left, fakes to the right, throws towards the left—

and Marvin blocks it.

By now he’s panting, and sweat is beading on his forehead. He’s barely keeping his hands still where they clutch at his broom. He’s starting to think maybe it’s time to call it quits for the day.

Charlotte and Cordelia are cheering again. He’d yell something at them, but he doesn’t have the energy.

“You’re going to have to do better than that!” Marvin taunts, tossing the Quaffle back to him.

He catches it, but only barely. For a moment he just hangs there, trying to catch his breath. Marvin frowns at him.

“Giving up already?” he calls. “Come on, Whiz, the world’s not going to end if I win _one game_.”

He regains his breath enough to call back, “In your dreams,” ignoring Marvin’s snort. He turns and heads back to the center of the field, intending to try again, to throw to the center this time, to do better on his fake-outs.

But his hands are shaking so hard he drops the Quaffle.

Watching it fall, Whizzer knows that something has gone wrong. He’s known it all morning. He just didn’t want it to be true.

Marvin is saying something, but his own heartbeat is too loud in his ears for him to hear it. He starts to dive, and his heart is racing, his breath is rasping, the Quaffle blurring in and out of his sight. He tries to slow down, to reorient himself, but he can’t—the world is whirling, and it won’t stop, it won’t _stop_ —

 

Marvin is diving before he even knows why, almost before anything happens. Up in the stands, Charlotte is shouting something, but the wind is rushing past him too fast to hear it. And then he’s vaulting off his broom just as Whizzer plummets to the ground.

Thank god he had already been descending. Thank god he doesn’t land head first. He could have broken his neck, or crushed his skull, or smashed his face into the ground. Thank god it’s only what it is, only this.

But this is bad enough.

Whizzer is sprawled panting and half-conscious on the hard turf of the Quidditch pitch, and Marvin’s heart hasn’t stopped diving yet.

He stumbles over to him, drops down to his knees beside him. “Hey,” he says. “Whizzer, what…”

“I’m sorry,” Whizzer gasps. He’s on his hands and knees, head hanging down like it’s too heavy to lift. Marvin grabs his shoulder, places his other hand gently on his cheek.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. He lifts Whizzer’s head to look him in the eyes. The fear and shame he sees there just about breaks his heart. “It’s okay,” he says gently, running his thumb lightly over Whizzer’s clammy skin. “It’s okay, I’m here with you. You’re gonna be okay.”

Charlotte and Cordelia have come running over, worry stark on both their faces. “What happened?” Charlotte says, kneeling down beside them.

“I don’t know,” Marvin says. Whizzer’s looking back down at the ground, his harsh breathing increasingly loud in the still fall air. “He just… fell.”

Charlotte’s already taking Whizzer’s pulse, lips pressed in a tight line. “We have to get him to the hospital wing,” she says grimly.

Marvin nods. “Whiz, can you stand?”

Ever stubborn, even now, Whizzer attempts to push himself to his feet. Marvin grabs his arm to steady him before he can fall back down.

It’s a much longer trip to the hospital wing than Marvin ever realized, from the Quidditch court. By the time they get to the closest staircase, Whizzer’s breathing so harshly that Marvin’s genuinely afraid he might stop altogether. He holds up a hand to halt them, readjusting his grip on Whizzer’s arm, where he’s taking more and more of his weight. “I’m not sure I can get him up the stairs,” he admits.

Charlotte grimaces. “Okay. Just—stay here, then. I’ll go get Madam Pomfrey.”

Marvin nods, and she shoots up the stairs. Cordelia bites her lip, looking between them.

“Help me get him sitting,” he says to her; Cordelia’s always been happier with a job to do. And frankly, he could use the help; Whizzer’s not exactly small.

Between them, they manage to get him seated on the stairs, leaning heavily against the baluster. His eyes are distant, unfocused, but one hand reaches up to grab for Marvin’s all the same.

That’s when Finnley Burke comes around the corner.

As Slytherins go, he’s not the worst of them (hell, at various times, Marvin’s thought that _Whizzer_ is the worst of them). But he’s hardly the best of them, either.

His cold eyes narrow at the sight of Whizzer, then widen when he sees their interlocked hands. He turns to Marvin with a nasty smile. “So the queer’s turned you then, has he?”

It’s a sign of how out of it Whizzer is that he doesn’t say anything. As much as Marvin fears being outed, he thinks Whizzer might fear it even more: anyone who dares to hint that hanging out with Whizzer is making his friends queer has always been dealt with swiftly and brutally, in all the time Marvin’s known him. But now he’s quiet, unaffected, and it’s honestly scaring Marvin more than anything else that’s happened so far.

“Move on, Burke,” he grits out. “I don’t have time for you right now.”

“Why, got a hot date?” Burke says with a sneer. “Just watch out, Rosenfeld. A fairy like him, you never know—”

“That’s enough!” come two different voices at once.

The first is Cordelia, who’s leaped to her feet from where she was sitting beside Whizzer, her wand in her hand. She’s trembling, but the expression on her face is pure rage. At that moment, he wouldn’t put it past her to hex Burke’s goddamn ears off.

The second voice is Madam Pomfrey.

Marvin doesn’t usually think of her as intimidating, this short, bustling, graying woman. But she sure has a presence as she marches down the stairs, Charlotte wide-eyed and anxious behind her.

At the sight of her, Burke backs off, though he doesn’t leave. Marvin would care more, except that he has a very ill boyfriend to worry about, one whose eyes have just closed and whose hand has just gone limp in his.

“Whizzer,” he says, voice shaking. He crouches down beside him, reaching for him just as Madam Pomfrey gets to the bottom of the stairs. “Whizzer, wake up—Whiz—”

“Move aside, Mr. Rosenfeld,” Madam Pomfrey says, not unkindly.

Cordelia takes his arm, tugging him out of the way. Whizzer’s hand falls back to his side; Marvin’s clenches into an involuntary fist. “It’s okay,” she whispers to him, as Pomfrey takes Whizzer’s pulse, “look, his eyes are open, don’t worry—”

“Tell me again what happened,” Madam Pomfrey says, ostensibly to Charlotte. But Marvin answers her anyway, too jittery to just sit and watch as she pokes and prods at Whizzer, whose eyes are in fact open now but who is otherwise all but unresponsive.

“We were playing Quidditch,” he says. “Just like we always do, but then he was—I don’t know, he was getting tired I guess, and then he dropped the Quaffle, and then he—he fell.”

“Did he hit his head?” Pomfrey asks, shining a light from her wand into Whizzer’s eyes. He flinches back, and for the first time since the Quidditch pitch he looks around, confusion stark on his face. “Easy, Mr. Brown,” Pomfrey murmurs to him, muttering “Nox” as she lowers her wand.

“No, he didn’t hit his head,” Marvin answers her. Whizzer looks up at him, and Marvin’s knees nearly weaken in relief. His breathing is still harsh and heavy, but at least he seems to be tracking now.

Madam Pomfrey utters an unfamiliar spell, and with a small bang a stretcher appears before her, hovering above the stairs. “Alright, Mr. Brown, up you go—”

But Whizzer balks. “No.”

He’s looking at Burke, whom Marvin had already forgotten about. Burke, who looks somewhat shaken, watching Whizzer with an air of—nervousness? shame? fear, even? Marvin doesn’t know, but he’s sure he doesn’t like it.

“Get out of here,” Marvin barks at him. Burke startles, but he doesn’t move.

“What’s going on with him?” he says uncertainly, looking from Marvin to Whizzer and back.

“Nothing,” Whizzer says, at exactly the same time that Marvin says, “None of your goddamn business.”

“Mr. Burke,” Madam Pomfrey says, “you are distressing my patient. Please move along.”

“I’m not _distressed_ ,” Whizzer says, and then stops to gasp in a breath.

Burke, like the idiot he is, takes a step closer. “Is he going to be okay?”

Marvin is, in general, not a very patient person. It turns out, to no one’s great surprise, that he is even less so when under duress.

“LEAVE HIM THE FUCK ALONE!” he roars. Cordelia jumps, her hand flying up to her mouth. Which is a bit rich, considering she’d been ready to curse the kid outright just five minutes or so ago.

Burke startles, too, hand jumping to his wand on instinct. Too bad he doesn’t actually pull it out; Marvin could use the release of a duel right now.

“You’re an idiot, Rosenfeld,” he hisses instead. “And so is he.” He makes a show of strolling back the way he came, hands in his pockets. At the last second, he turns back around. “Just make sure it isn’t catching,” he sing-songs. “Since he’s already shared _enough_ with you.”

Marvin whips out his wand to curse him, but he’s already disappeared around a corner and is gone.

“Now will you cooperate, Mr. Brown?” Madam Pomfrey says briskly.

Marvin turns back around, trying to ignore his own shaking in favor of worrying about Whizzer’s. Whizzer, who is attempting to leverage himself to his feet, ignoring both Cordelia and Pomfrey’s attempts to help. “I can walk,” he insists, clinging to the baluster.

Marvin grabs his arm, pushing Cordelia out of the way to reach him. “You stubborn idiot,” he says, tugging him over to the stretcher. “The last thing we need is for you to fall down the stairs and break your head open.”

Whizzer glares at him, but he sits. Immediately the stretcher raises itself to support him, and for all his protesting, Whizzer leans back against it with obvious relief.

“Thank you, Mr. Rosenfeld.” Pomfrey takes out her wand, and the stretcher starts to move, carrying Whizzer up the stairs. Marvin follows, Charlotte and Cordelia a step or two behind. He can hear them whispering to each other, but he doesn’t care enough to work out what they’re saying.

All he cares about right now is Whizzer, who is pale and sweating and still breathing hard as Pomfrey maneuvers him into the hospital wing.

As soon as he’s settled in a bed, Whizzer’s eyes start to close. Marvin grabs his hand, his earlier panic still churning through his body, making him feel nauseous and hot. Whizzer squeezes back, forcing his eyes open to smile at Marvin. “I’m okay,” he murmurs quietly. “Just tired.”

Marvin huffs, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s somewhat afraid that if he opens his mouth, he’s just going to let out a sob, and none of them need that right now. Instead, he strokes Whizzer’s hair with his free hand, smiling just a little when he leans into the touch.

Madam Pomfrey, who had left to grab something from her stores, tsks at the sight of them when she returns. “Mr. Rosenfeld, my patient needs rest,” she says sternly.

Marvin raises an eyebrow at her, then looks pointedly down at Whizzer, who’s already mostly asleep.

She hesitates, then sighs. “Oh, very well. But if I find that you’re upsetting him in any way—”

“I won’t,” Marvin promises. He looks down at Whizzer, who’s still panting a little, his eyes closed and head heavy against Marvin’s hand. He swallows, hoping to force back the heat behind his eyes just a little longer. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’ll be alright,” Madam Pomfrey says kindly. “He just needs some rest. Don’t you worry.” She sets a bottle of an unfamiliar purple potion on the bedside table next to him. “If he wakes before I’m back, have him drink this. It’s to help him sleep,” she adds to his questioning look. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She pats him gently on the shoulder, startling him, then walks quickly away.

The curtain closes itself behind her as she leaves, and Marvin, clutching Whizzer’s hand tightly in his own, finally puts his head down and cries.

He can’t help but notice that she never answered his question.


End file.
